


Shrinking Maps

by omphale23



Category: The Baker (2007)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 03:33:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/pseuds/omphale23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was all very <i>film noir</i> and he could nearly hear the swell of violins as the traffic passed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shrinking Maps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hpstrangelove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpstrangelove/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Redrawing Borders](https://archiveofourown.org/works/32001) by [omphale23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/pseuds/omphale23). 



_On the second-last day of the trip he'd looked up from his paper and spotted Bjorn standing across the street under a lamppost, watching._

*

Bjorn stood in the rain for hours. On a bridge, in a country he hated. Waiting for Milo to understand, to arrive, to see that this was more. It was all very _film noir_ and he could nearly hear the swell of violins as the traffic passed.

Fine, it was closer to twenty minutes. And the rain was more of a light drizzle, as far as Bjorn could tell after sticking his hand out from under the umbrella and glaring at the drops in his palm. But it was an extremely _damp_ evening, and a very _long_ twenty minutes. The rest of the night, he waited in the pub around the corner, moodily staring into a glass of bad red wine and trying to remember whether he'd left the note on top of the duvet, or under the carefully rolled socks in Milo's suitcase.__

By the time he staggered back to the hotel—it really _had_ been hours, even if most of those hours were spent watching rugby and drinking surprisingly good lager—Milo had checked out.

***

_Bjorn had brought leather cuffs and Milo had spent the next week showering with the grinding sting of his wrists a reminder._

*

Vancouver, of all the cities through which they had stumbled, had been the most carefully planned. It required stealth to find a shop with the right merchandise, and even more stealth to let himself into Milo's room without being seen.

And yes, Milo was right in calling him an idiot for sneaking in, because it was theoretically possible that they could have killed each other by accident, tiptoeing about in the dark. But saying that was like saying that Heisenberg had a theory about toasters—the potential exists, but wasn't really the point.

The point was that the cuffs were a _brilliant_ idea, one of Bjorn's best, and if he didn't get any more nights, if one of them made a mistake or lost the nerve to kill or vanished into the wilds of some bizarre foreign land, it wouldn't matter in the least.

Once Bjorn had Milo lying beneath him, arms stretched tight to the center of the headboard, eyes closed and head bent back—once he watched Milo's hips stutter and snap until his heels dug into the sheets and his thighs spread wide, wanting, asking, taking—once Bjorn had been given that, he was content to let the rest fall to pieces. This was enough. This would always be enough.

He made a mental note to think of something better the next time.

***

_Milo could say _guess what's in my pocket_ in thirteen languages, and Bjorn guessed right every time._

*

The games were embarrassingly simple. The answer was one of three options: a clenched fist, his cock, or a garrote and an address in an expensive but slightly dangerous neighborhood. Milo was achingly, painfully predictable, to the point where Bjorn frequently wondered why he'd ever taken up with the man in the first place.

Then again, when the option was _cock_—as it often was—it didn't take more than a few minutes for the reminder to filter back into his brain. If there were times when Bjorn might have liked the surprise of being wrong, they were outweighed by the knowledge that Milo would _let_ him. Would relax into Bjorn's grip, would lean against a wall and drop his guard and follow Bjorn into whatever came next.

***

_It was simply the unlikely coincidences that ruled their lives._

*

Bjorn didn't believe in chance.

He believed in plotting, and methodical investigation, and most of all in the importance of checking for escape routes. He believed that elevator stop buttons were better than wine and roses. That anything either of them said, when peeling off jackets and pulling down zippers, was a lie. That those moments, with Milo's fingers wrapped through the grating and his knees bent around Bjorn's shoulders, with Milo's chest heaving and his eyes open, watching Bjorn take him apart—those moments were fate. Or something damn close.

Mostly because Bjorn made damn sure that they happened exactly the way he intended.

***

_Milo eventually walked away, but he could feel Bjorn watching him go._

*

It took him days to get the cinders out of his palms, scrapes raw over his elbows and spine. Bjorn didn't speak, didn't ask Milo to stop—because Milo might listen—didn't think about the chances that they'd be caught, ignored the bloom of panic when he couldn't see all the exits and entrances. When Bjorn tried to slip deeper into the shadows, Milo shook his head and pinned Bjorn's wrists to the ground, rocked himself over Bjorn and ground their hips together over and over, sweat sliding down his neck to drip into Bjorn's mouth.

Bjorn shuddered and shook and came apart under Milo, eyes squeezed shut and biting down on his lip, determined not to make the same mistake twice. He didn't like losing, and this was a game that he enjoyed far too much to concede.

***

_So Milo shrugged his shoulders and turned over, sunglasses over his eyes as he watched Bjorn stare out at the water._

*

They barely knew each other outside of the job. Bjorn didn't know what this was, why he had slowed at the familiar flash of pale skin and ridiculous hair. He didn't know why he wandered over to the same piece of beach and stretched out, just out of Milo's reach. Bjorn spent most of the next month trying to understand what had happened, why he'd fallen into this. He bought a lot of romance novels, watched several atrocious movies and one pretentious BBC period drama, and spent a surprising amount of time wondering which of them was the plucky heroine and which the misunderstood hero.

He eventually decided not to think too hard about the last problem, and focus on the important bits.

Maybe it was the challenge that caught him. Milo was so certain, so calm, that Bjorn couldn't help pushing at him to see where the cracks showed. He was curious, and maybe that was what started it sliding downhill.


End file.
